


No Pillow Talk Required

by agdhani



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 00:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17735186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/pseuds/agdhani
Summary: This fulfills a host of LJ One_Million_Word prompts.It's a roleplay chapter between my OFC and her 'clone' of Charles Vane from Black Sails.





	No Pillow Talk Required

Each of the bedroom levels had one. With the majority of the family members sharing a bedroom with one or more roommates, having somewhere to entertain visitors or just hang out was a must. The ground level family areas were not always conducive to that. And on those occasions when one of the roommates brought someone home, for an overnighter or a quickie or just for a private place to talk, these communal rooms, equipped with a variety of the most comfortable seating that could be had, some sort of sound system, and other entertainments as the floors residents desired, frequently served as somewhere for displaced roommates to crash.  
Or sometimes they just came here as an escape from a quarrelsome, moody roommate.  
She did not know why he was there, or who he had come to share bedroom space during her long absence…but it did not surprise her to see him, shirtless, sprawled across a sofa with one booted foot on one sofa arm, the other leg dangling over the side so his foot rested on the floor. He was like some ancient, unruly god, a dark warrior, spectacular in his bare-skinned glory, but she would never tell him that. There was no need for such words as they would go straight to his head. The posture, and the fact that he had not removed his boots, gave her the impression of a man ready to leap up, to run, to fight, if the need sprang upon him.  
If such a need crept up on him, as she did now, it would have the advantage. His eyes were closed, barely visible beneath the bend of his arm where it rested over his face as if it would shut out the dim glow of the only lamp burning now in this communal room.  
No one else was here, perhaps already having escaped to their rooms in retreat from that awkward family meal, perhaps out for last minute duties or dates or business elsewhere. The stereo was silent and she heard no other evidence of music or television beyond the closed doors of the rooms around them. The great house had fallen eerily still once the shuffle of feet drew everyone away from the dinner table. She had sat there alone for a long time, first Curt’s comforting hand on her shoulder and a whispered, “Ya know where I am if ya need me…if ya wanna go into town…or talk…or whatever…” and later Stasio’s hands when he finished his nightly kitchen routine and headed off for his own room.  
There had been affection in each touch, joy even, and from Curt, the suppressed need for a bond that came with so long a time spent apart. The House needed their joint strength and power, since such was not to be found in the crumbling relationship of Laird and Lady.  
But not tonight.  
Part of her felt tired. So tired.  
The effort to go out was beyond her. But she needed…  
She could have rationalized her choice to be here now. The weariness, the distances, the effort it would have taken to do otherwise. The unanswered, unreturned phone calls. Familial and business obligations held by others. The unusual absence of David when she went to the room where she was told he had been taken.  
Not unusual maybe…who wouldn’t want to be out celebrating the ‘containment’ of the too-long present parasite in his head? Still, she wanted to see him…needed to see him…to assure herself of what was real and what was not…and perhaps assure him as well. But he wasn’t there.  
None of those rationalizations were wholly accurate or necessary. Maybe they would be, for Charles…as her being here now might be a means of further supporting his ego or identity without those explanations. If she needed to address why she stood here now, she would. Right now, however, she only needed one thing…and he was the one who could best provide it …but did she dare wake him to get it?  
“What?”  
She blinked, wondering how long he had been awake, how long he had known she was there. Maybe he had never been asleep. His voice was like warm honey and made her shiver, her tongue involuntarily flicking over her lips as if to taste the sweetness of his tone.  
When she did not immediately speak, he dropped his arm to look at her, half expecting to see some timid creature there afraid to speak to him. Not that she was either, timid nor afraid. The undercurrent he had seen tonight at dinner, however, the way it appeared she was being pushed out of her own family, concerned him and filled him with a familiar need to fight. He had a weakness for the underdog, for he had been one himself once. And knowing this particular red-headed underdog was stronger than she sometimes appeared, feeling she was being wronged by the man who supposedly loved her, provoked Charles into a place where a fight brewed not far beneath the surface of his skin.  
He did not think it like her to roll-over and accept being pushed out, but how long would it be, he wondered, before she fought back? What form would that fight take?  
He would, he knew, be fighting on her side. He knew she knew that too.  
Judging by what he saw in her eyes now, the spark and smolder of igniting fire when she reached one hand out to him, daring him to take it, he did not have much to worry about.  
The corners of his mouth twisted into a smirk as he swung his leg down, sat, and closed his hand around hers. It was hot to the touch, mirroring what burned in her eyes and when he rose to follow her with feline grace, he did so without a word.  
Any man with half a brain would know that look.  
The trembling in her hand, the tremor that reverberated throughout her body, was borne of so many things she took no time, made no effort, to dissect it. There was anchoring strength in his manual-labor strong hand, an anchor and strength she needed to tap into if she was going to make it through whatever lay ahead. Barefoot she led silently to the end of the corridor, glad he chose not to question, thankful there was no need to speak.  
Conversation was not what she wanted, or needed, right now.  
The old, original service elevator had been restored when the house was rebuilt and it was there that she led. It was a replica of the original, with metal grating that opened and closed like an accordion once the solid glass and iron inner door was closed. Once inside, she hesitated for a moment, her hand on the lever, the troubling memories of that astral hotel pushing to the surface, but her hesitation did not last long. She did not look at him or speak, her throat dry, her breathing fast and shallow with anticipation. Once the door was closed and the grate secure, she waited only a few heartbeats for the lift to begin its descent. Her palm pressed the stop button, halting the room between floors.  
They would not be interrupted here. At this hour, no one was likely to use the elevator. It was private enough for what she had in mind.  
Charles’ breath catch in that suspended moment after the cessation of movement that lurched his stomach in a not unpleasant way. He felt it. She heard it.  
“Kiss me,” he growled, the tone strangled by the cut off breath behind it.  
Then she was there, her movement accompanying his words as if his command had been her intention to begin with, the curves of her body pressing against him as she pushed him against the rear wall with enough force to send a clattering shudder through the space.  
He barely felt that however. All he felt was her mouth on his, insistent and determined, the pounding of her heart beneath the softness of her breasts where it beat near to his, and the digging of her short nails and fingertips into his arms as she held him there as if he might escape her.  
He had no intention of escaping.  
Charles Vane tasted the way she expected him to taste, the lingering saccharinity of cinnamon spiced rum still on his lips. The hint of tobacco was absent, the smell of it not present in the perfume of his hair or in the sweat on his skin, and briefly, in the haze of her push to find something she felt she was lacking, she wondered if he had given up the habit during her long absence or if he simply had not smoked since his last shower.  
The need of him, the throbbing awakened by the push and grind of his hips against hers, erased the ability for random thought. When his hands began the teasing dance of drawing up the sides of her skirt, however, she pulled back, beyond his reach, breaking all physical contact between them.  
His breath hissed between his teeth and they stared at one another, he with his back to the rear wall of the lift, her with hers against the securely closed door. Already there was a flush fanning from her chest, up her throat, and into her cheeks, and though his skin was darker, sun-bronzed from a lifetime of hard labor and piracy, he knew there was a similar flush over his skin as well. He could feel it in the prickle that radiated across his torso and felt to spread with each ragged breath.  
It was a stand-off…but one both knew would not last.  
She saw it in the way he waited, hungry and impatient.  
He saw it in the flicker in her eyes, in the twitch at their corners and the corners of her kiss-bruised lips. Her hesitancy was born partially of a hope that he understood…that he did not read into this anything more than what it was. That he was not afraid of her.  
Charles knew power. He knew how it worked. How to get what was wanted. When to give, when to take. Where the fluid boundaries of power stretched between the giving, the taking. What was weakness, what was not. He knew the look of it, the forms of determination in a man’s, or woman’s, eyes and mouth that spoke of need. He knew the reverse of that look, of someone on the verge of breaking and losing whatever power they perceived they had. He knew looks of defeat and defiance.  
And he knew, in the center of himself, the confidence to give her what she needed to bolster her, to aid in her quest for the power and strength the House needed her to have if it was to survive the efforts being made to tear it apart.  
He was not one of the Firsts. But he was a Second…and he was hers…and he had pledged his strength to her long ago when he had come to this house. He was not afraid to give, felt it no threat to who or what he was.  
Besides…doing so, he could sense in the core of him, was going to be well-worth his while.  
If it gained him any position or power as well…all the better.  
He began a step forward.  
“Stop.”  
He obeyed.  
“Back.”  
He returned to the wall, watching her with feverish eyes as she slid slowly down the wall to sit on the floor, knees drawn up and legs spread so that the folds of her skirt draped seductively. Her legs were as bare as her feet, bare to the roundness that rested in the nest created by the back of her skirt, but the way the fabric draped between her thighs, it covered the heated center where he ached to be.  
Knowing that she was Clan, it was likely she wore no panties to thwart him. But he could not see to be sure.  
“Drop them.”  
He hesitated only long enough to determine her meeting, understanding modern speech still not his strong suit. But the quick lowering of her gaze to his waistline removed his uncertainty, and with a twist at the corners of his mouth, he unfastened the buttons that held his pants tight across his hips and took his time pushing them down, releasing the evidence of his arousal so that it bobbed at the level of her face. Knowing what she could do to him so easily if she chose, remembering the feel of her mouth upon him, made him growl again, soft and needy, as his trembling hands stopped, the leather now stretched tight due to the spread of his legs and unable to fall any lower unless he moved.  
Certain he knew what was coming next, a certain act of power that any woman…or man…had in the taking of another’s genitals in their mouth…where sharp teeth could be the undoing of a man too bold and brazen and unkind, Charles held his breath.  
And waited.  
She did not move.  
The waiting might have sapped arousal from another man. For Charles, this particular waiting beneath the intensity of her gaze focused on him there, brought further tightening in his groin and a bead of moisture to the tip of his engorged shaft.  
She nodded, licking her lips. “Good,” she purred.  
He was sure he would be rewarded now, that she would laud her power over him and take what she had come for.  
Remaining where she was, however, her expression unchanging, giving no smirk, no smile, no flicker of visual lust, she waited until he was forced to release his strained, held breath between his clenched teeth, and then said, “Stroke yourself.”  
Unlike the previous order, he had no difficulty understanding this one, but it still puzzled him. He had seen enough porn by now to understand it, but men on camera were doing just that…performing for a camera. And he’d pleasured himself enough in a room with whores, watching them together, until he was ready to participate. He’d even gotten in a few good tugs when foreplay with a partner was not resulting in arousal fast enough for his needs.  
But he had never been the one to perform before. Anyone wanting to watch him had simply never crossed his mind. And though for a moment, he felt a flash of something dark…as if this was somehow degrading or embarrassing…it passed quickly with the first slide of his hand over his erection…and the way she again licked her lips and her nostrils flared in interest.  
Another power play. Realizing, when her hand disappeared beneath the folds of the skirt, that she found watching him to stimulating, arousing, was all he needed.  
At first she watched his hand, the care he was taking to enjoy the act but not enjoy it too much. But that was not what she wanted. Not at all.  
“Like you mean it.”  
He frowned a little, confused, but when she was suddenly on her knees, closing the gap between them, one hand tight and twisting around his balls so that he winced and groaned, she hissed again, “Like you mean it,”…and he understood.  
She wasn’t going to fuck him. She was going to make him fuck his own hand and leave the evidence on the elevator floor. But he remembered that hand around his sack, squeezing. He remembered the delight he had found in her dominance and the traces of degradation. He remembered the ultimate high of that particular release and how, even in the giving over control and power to her, he had felt to be the most powerful man in all the world beneath her touch.  
The remembrance was all it took. His brain, his heart, his very life, was putty in her hand.  
Now she watched his face as he stroked faster, harder, watched the rise and fall of his chest, the trembling in his thighs as he struggled to remain standing. She watched the part of his lips, the way his eyes squeezed tight as his body drew closer to release, and when he tried to grab hold of her with his empty hand she swatted him away.  
The kneading, squeezing, twisting hand between his thighs refused to let up its assault.  
She read him well. She knew all of his tells, the one woman he trusted completely to read him this way. The peak drew closer, the moment of inevitability drawing near, and when he made the mistake of trying to resist, her free hand reached for his chest, raking nails down his torso accompanying an additional tightening of her hand around his balls. He jerked, tensed…but before his hand made the final stroke that would have finished him, she barked, “Stop!”  
Charles only barely managed to do as she commanded and his cock, swollen and desperate under the assault of that denial, trembled and dribbled clear fluid onto the floor. His involuntary growling yowl shook her, shook them both.  
He dared not hope she would suck him then, for even the flick of her tongue over the head would have ended it for him. Panting, he looked down at her, his eyes dilated, his face red from exertion, his chest heaving with the effort to not only regain his breath but to rein himself back in from the precipice she had taken to.  
He could have been angry with her for this denial, this cruelty. But oh the aphrodisiac of the power in her eyes, the control she had over him. The denial was sweet pleasure in its own way and his body shook to give her more.  
Her hand released him and she stood, slipping out of the filmy blouse she had been wearing over a pale green camisole. Without a word, her hands at his waist, she eased him down, into a posture as if he were sitting, his back still against the wall, with nothing but the strength of his legs to hold him there. She maneuvered his hands behind his back, made him hold on to the brass rail that ran at waist level around the whole of the lift, a handle meant to be held by those who found elevators queasy or in case of an unexpected drop if the system failed. With the blouse, she tied him there, bonds that would not hold, that could be easily broken if he tried, but as she stepped in front of him again, their bodies close yet not touching, he knew he was not going anywhere.  
He was too desperate for whatever she would do next.  
It transferred some of his body’s weight into his hands, into his grip on the rail, particularly when she spread his legs enough that his cock and balls were not supported by his thighs. It was hardly a comfortable position, but not the most awkward one he had ever been in, but he had no notion how long he would be able to endure it.  
Especially when she straddled his hips and began a slow methodical teasing of her wet sex rubbing against his sensitive cock.  
His head dropped back with a throaty groan at the first touch of her, the overpowering pleasure of the sensation robbing him of everything except the desire to collapse beneath her. His position would not allow that, however, and as his legs already began to strain, he found that thrusting up to meet her wasn’t easy either. Her legs bore her weight, as she shifted, squatted, stood, slid over him, denying him penetration but, she could tell, bringing them both the pleasure she desired to find…and give.  
The position of his head exposed his throat, and she leaned forward until she close her mouth over the side of his neck, not breaking skin, not rupturing anything vital, but biting hard enough to draw forth a hiss and a spasm of abrupt tension throughout his body.  
“Are you afraid?” she asked without removing her mouth.  
He shook his head from side to side.  
Her bite grew tighter. “I can’t hear you.”  
“No…” he ground out. There had been times when he had played vaguely similar ‘games’ with captives, and he had wanted them to be afraid. He had wanted their fear. But fear was not what she wanted from him, only an increase of arousal that was evidenced by the jerking or his cock against her folds and the shudder that raced through his body as the still overly sensitive organ tasted a fleeting reminder of the release he had been denied.  
“And you are mine?”  
“Always.” He did not need to hear the note of desperation in her question to know it was there. She had lost so much, still stood to lose so much; why possessing him should matter so much he did not know. But it filled him with strength and reassurance and a surge of certainty to know that she did.  
He might not be First…but she needed him. Not to be strong, for she was already that, but for something deeper in her center, a hole he was proud to fill in her life.  
The answer she wanted to hear was rewarded with the joining he longed for, the surrounding of her damp heat around his cock. He tried to buck up to meet her, found he could not, and instead gave in to her control, her riding him, her mouth covering his to devour the rum kisses as her hands tangled in his hair and pinned his head against the wall behind him.  
As sensitive as he was, he did not think the sex would last long. But with her in control of the speed, the rhythm, his body, his need for orgasm was drawn out far longer than he thought he could possibly endure, until she cried out her own release into the cavern of his mouth and ground down against his pelvis with such force, her nails in his skin, that his body found it a simple thing to give in to the permission she silently granted.  
It had to be, he felt certain in that breathless, exhilarating moment, the best sex he had ever had…though to be honest, every time with her felt that way.  
She did not lift her head from the kiss as she fumbled absently with the fabric that bound his arms, sucking his breath, giving hers to him, until the sank to the floor, his jello-legs unable to support him, his strength sapped by what he had spent within her. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against his chest, her head now resting on his shoulder, her fingers still in his hair. They remained that way, silent and still, until his flaccid shaft slipped away and their breathing, measured in time with one another’s, came at a calm, normal pace.  
Her heart no longer thundered. She no longer trembled with the burning need her uncertainty had earlier fueled. She was home and her family would be hers again. Carl, Dany, and West be damned.  
“Happy Birthday, Charles.”  
It wasn’t his birthday…but he understood what she meant.  
He let her go, wiggling the leather back up his legs, over his hips, as he watched her tidy herself into something presentable.  
To him, she was always presentable.  
Carl, he thought, was a fool.  
He knew that man was not keen on being dominated, controlled…generally displeased about not getting his own way. And not many men found the same extreme level of pleasure he did in these games with her. Feeling lost in her own family, it was no wonder she had sought out the one person willing to give this without question…with no other strings attached and no need to get permission from anyone else. She knew he was strong enough…in body, in mind, in himself…not to feel emasculated by these games. He had grounded her once more…and she had fueled his ego enough to make him want to stay.  
They both found power in it. No pillow talk was required.


End file.
